


how do you measure a year?

by luftballons



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons/pseuds/luftballons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another post-finale reaction fic. Connor and Oliver try to talk about Things and it is difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how do you measure a year?

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, from Rent.

It was really cliché, wasn't it? But that shouldn't have been his first thought. Technically it wasn't, but the first thought was such a huge mix of worry and fear and _love_ that they all just bounded up into the mental equivalent of smashing your hands against the keyboard. Nothing that could be picked apart and put into words, not like that second thought. But it was kind of true, in its own way. And so fucking ironic. Wasn't it supposed to be his due, for what he had done, to get something like that? In what fucked up universe was this even remotely okay? Not that it would've been okay if he'd tested positive, God, he'd almost wrecked himself from the anxiety of the test in the first place, but somehow this was five hundred times worse. Probably because he assumed there wasn't any way that Oliver could've had it. Because Oliver was good, and Oliver had been the one to suggest and people who are that careful and that smart and aren't sleeping with upwards of four strangers a month _don't deserve this_.

But here he was, former gay slut with an HIV-positive boyfriend. How hilarious and cruel. What a great tagline for everything this year had been: hilarious and cruel. He can feel the same kind of hideous hysterical anxiety he'd had at the night of the – **that** night. It wells up in him but he forces it down and tries to keep it from showing because right now he has to be more has to be better has to be something anything for Oliver when he'd never been any good at being anything for anybody. Sliding into the bed next to his not-quite-boyfriend, he puts his arm around him and kisses the top of his head, whispering reassurances to him. The words don't matter, just the sentiment, but Oliver feels far and away, wrapped up with the news and trying to handle it, probably even trying to understand how Connor would or could fit into what was now happening. Connor wonders what kinds of things Oliver is telling himself about him and about their relationship. He wonders how long he's going to continue trying to convince himself that they shouldn't be together before he says it out loud. But he doesn't push it, just holds and reassures Oliver until he's ready to talk. Whenever that may be.

He could remember when HIV was still a huge epidemic. When AIDS was threatening to kill the entire gay community, when the church was claiming it was God's punishment, when the government hadn't given any money to help so the epidemic waged on. But he had still been young then, still barely understood anything about sexuality, and AIDS had seemed so far and removed it was easy to avoid the thought of it. High school students with flowering desires for other boys had a lot of other things to think about that didn't lie in the realm of death and sadness.

But at the same time, Rent was such an ingrained part of every gay kid's lexicon, this little piece of so many coming out stories. And after all, what better a place to turn to but theatre, if you're looking for people like you? _La Vie Boheme_ was every bit the anthem that Jonathon Larson intended it to be, and high school students still lacked the embarrassment to not jump up on tables and belt the whole thing to the chagrin of everyone in the area. Back then, that's what Rent had seemed. High energy, charged, full of life with these moments of death. It was a celebration, not a funeral dirge.

And HIV still hadn't seemed real. It was something that happened in the dramatic soap-opera world of Rent. It wasn't a thing that happened to real people. Except that it _was_ happening. And just like so many stories about gays, it seemed like his was going to end up in death and sobbing and _loss_. But they would never be like that, would they? Some sad cliché? There were treatments now, and. There were ways. They could get through it, together. If Oliver lets him stay.

Then, suddenly, he says exactly what Connor is expecting, the dreaded, “You should go.” Connor clings tighter to him, trying to remind himself the way _I love you_ had slipped out a few nights ago, and he tries to undo all the lies he had told himself about how it didn't count. “No, you're not listening. You should go.” Oliver reiterates, trying to make it sound like he means it, but Connor gets the feeling he doesn't.

At least, Connor really hopes that he doesn't mean it. The time they'd been apart had been a nightmare, and even being back together in this weird state of almost-but-not-quite was almost too much. He couldn't imagine being thrown out again by this person who he loved so much it hurts, not over something like this where all he wants is to stay at his side. He could imagine the worry that would suffocate him if he had to think about Oilver dealing with this all alone – or the loathing, wondering if someone else would get to hold and comfort him because he'd fucked up so badly he would never get to do that.

“You're still here,” Oliver tries to move out of his hold, voice hollow as he looks, “Told you already – you shouldn't even be touching me, probably.”

Connor doesn't force him to stay, releasing his hold and watches Oliver scoot out of it. They both look sad, like they lost something they wanted but were afraid to say. Connor shakes his head, though, almost wanting to laugh incredulously at that last comment. “You can't get HIV from hugging someone, or else I would've tested positive, too. So I think we've well established --”

“Shut up.” Oliver rolls over and buries his face in the pillow, grabbing the blanket to go underneath. If Connor wasn't leaving, Oliver was clearly giving his best attempt to do so.

“Look I'm just saying --”

“I know what you're saying.”

Lifting up the covers on his side of the bed, Connor makes to get under them too, scooting up as close next to Oliver as he can without touching him. “How about here? Is here okay?” It's an honest question where it could have been sarcastic.

“Connor, that's not the point,” Oliver says exasperatedly, tired from the internal struggle and not just the pretense-one he's creating with Connor. “What are you going to do? Sleep next to me for the rest of our lives?” Maybe if anger, frustration hadn't been seeping into his tone, he wouldn't have let slip anything about Commitment. But Connor doesn't mind, and he's glad they're under the covers where he can't see the momentary flush of his cheeks that Oliver thought of him being there forever, at least at one point. “You think you'll be happy like that? I've told you before, you could get anyone you want, anyone at all and you're still...” His voice trails off, becomes smaller, sadder, “You're still here.”

“Has it occurred to you that's because this is where I want to be?” The reply is quick, practiced. They were always going to end up back here, whether it was for this reason or another and Connor was ready to have that discussion. “I mean, to hear you talk, I'd just go off and have sex and not care. But I've been here for a month just showing up and getting in your way for even a fraction of a chance to be back with you. Not anyone else, _you_.”

Oliver is too quiet. Time passes too slowly as Connor forces himself to wait for a response instead of trying to drag one out of him with endlessly more words. He's said what he needed. Time to rest his case before he puts too much into it. Too many words could be just as bad as not enough. Too many words left room for argument, left room to trip up and say something wrong. But the finality of the statement – it's a pretty good closing argument. He starts to wonder if Oliver is just going to stay there, a small and quiet target until he's nothing, until Connor has to leave. His throat feels tight with worry, with shame, with need.

After a moment, he feels him shift (can't see well, not underneath the covers where his eyes haven't adjusted to the dark), and his heart skips a beat or three as he's afraid that Oliver is getting up and leaving, and then – and then he feels Oliver scooting back, closer, so that his back presses up against Connor, Connor's hand slotting against his shoulder. “I can't push you away again,” he say, his throat dry and hoarse, and Connor doesn't have to see his face to know he's crying.

“Then don't,” comes the simple answer, but Oliver shakes his head.

“You don't know what it was like, to be cheated on like that because I --” Oliver stops, wondering if it's worth reiterating. These things had already been said. It was a guilt trip he'd watched Connor take again and again. But Connor doesn't stop him and he doesn't argue. He listens, and somehow the surrender is the worst of all. “I can't do it again. I can't lose you again and it was so hard, I wanted to forgive you, I wanted you to stay. _Want_ you to stay and the more you do, the longer you're here it's – Please, you can't. You can't throw your life away on me.”

“No one's lives are are over,” Connor reminds him, his voice shaking despite all the bravado he tries to shove into it, “We have so much time ahead of us, we'll figure something out, I swear, we'll do everything and keep trying.”

“That's not a decision you can make.” There's a finality to Oliver's tone that's hard to get past and it scares Connor. Wrapping his hand around Oliver's shoulder he squeezes it, trying to get him back, trying to get him to say anything else at all. He doesn't. And all the ground Connor thought he'd gained in that moment Oliver turned over to let himself be touched, he thinks he's lost. “Look, what I mean is...”

“It's okay.” Maybe Connor just doesn't want to have to hear, or maybe he just doesn't want to have to make Oliver say it. Either way, he's stopped it now anyway and that's enough. “I want to be here, okay? No matter what. Nothing that you can say or do will make me love you any less.” Honestly, if anything could, wouldn't that have been better than all the pining he'd done? Hadn't, deep down, part of him tried to fight this whole thing and make it be so he didn't? That wasn't how love worked. “But if you don't want me here, if you really want for me to just. Leave.” It isn't a sentence he can finish, not even one he can string together coherently because it wasn't supposed to be like that and he couldn't just offer it up. Even if it was the right thing to do.

“What if I get you sick?” Whispered into the darkness under the blankets, ready to be taken back. Connor presses closer and shakes his head.

“You won't, we'll be careful,” and, anyway, he'd been mostly careful thus far. He'd done a pretty good job of not contracting anything yet and he was pretty keen on staying that way.

Oliver laughs morosely, “A lot more careful. Like, for starters, you can't just --”

“Shh, not right now.” There would be time for negotiation of what was right and what was wrong later but Connor doesn't want to hear it right now. Part of him really doesn't want to have to consent to most of what was going to be said anyway, but that wasn't an option. “Don't think about that, just. There's plenty we can still do, okay? It's not like only one thing makes me happy.”

Oliver groans noncommittally, but doesn't press it. Slowly, tentatively, Connor slides his had from his shoulder to around Oliver's waist, pulling him even closer so he can bury his nose in the nape of his neck and hold on tight to him. Oliver doesn't stop him so they stay like that, buried under their covers and letting time pass around them. After awhile, Connor presses a couple of kisses to Oliver's neck, testing the water. Oliver presses back closer.

“We can stay under these covers as long as you like. Hell, I'll even build you a blanket-fort in your living room if you want.” At least that gets Oliver to laugh.

“A blanket fort? What, you have some secret skill for it I don't know about?”

Connor shrugs, “I have siblings. It's a camaraderie thing. Build a fort, see how long you can stay there before everyone chickens out and runs back to their own bed. I'm not saying my forts were Notre Dame status here, but I am saying they're pretty great.”

Oliver shifts, turns around to face Connor. “I wouldn't mind seeing that, sometime.” They both know the implicit detail: you can stick around to show me. Connor warms at the idea. It wasn't a definite yes, but it was more than enough to make it clear what Oliver wanted to say even if he felt incapable of coming outright with it.

“Sometime, then,” he almost adds 'it's a date,' but he doesn't want to push his luck. It's starting to get too-warm under the covers like this, the air too thick but he doesn't want to leave, not if Oliver is bent on making this be his comfort zone. He can feel Oliver watching him, trying to make sense of where to go next, what they should do, but it just ends with him curling in on himself again, Connor puts his arms around him, keeping him close.

“I don't want to lose you,” Oliver says finally, “Or us. God, I know it's selfish. Holding back all this time and all I've wanted was to be able to give in and say yes and sleep with you again, and now it's...but I still want it,” he gives a little broken laugh, “how wrong is that?”

Connor rests his head on top of Oliver's, trying to get the words in order before he replies. It would be too easy to be flippant, say something about being hot and of course you love me, but that wouldn't be fair. No, he's going to have to be more tactful, more sensitive. “It's not wrong, and it's definitely not selfish. I mean, I think it's pretty clear I've wanted all that too. Both the us-in-general and the us-in-the-sheets,” okay so maybe not 100% tactful, “but we'll still have those. Being safe can be sexy all on its own.”

“Shut up. You don't believe that.”

“Sure I do. Pulling out the condom, putting it on you painstaking slow....”

“Seriously, shut up,” but there's a note of laughter again to his voice and Connor can hear it. He reaches over to gently wipe away Oliver's tears, quiet again for a moment.

“I mean it, though. Nothing is going to change.” His voice doesn't leave any room for argument, a finality to it that is as gentle as it is strong. “And I it makes you selfish and wrong, I'm right there with you.”

Oliver sighs deeply, like he's given in, or at least that he's ready to get off this emotional rollercoaster for now and try to relax. It's not okay, and it's probably never going to be okay. Connor knows he's signing himself up for this conversation over and over again, but God willing these conversations could be the hardest part and if that's true he'll have them a hundred times over in lieu of any actual sickness. And maybe it was cliché and sad and all of the dramatic things it shouldn't have to be, crying and holding each other and wiping away tears, but it doesn't matter. If that's what his life is, there's no point in arguing with it.

Out of nowhere, he feels Oliver's hands on him, one at his waist and the other sliding down his chest and it's his turn to sigh, happily, for the contact. Timidly, still sore from all the emotion, but wanting to push past it, Oliver says, “Why don't you go back to the part where you were going to make this all extra sexy?”


End file.
